Man from the moon (UNDER EDITING)

Journal005/I Can't See The Stars

"The bitterest tears shed over graves are for words left unsaid and deeds left undone." - Harriet Beecher Stowe

At the final stretch; my heart pounded. We were a mere few towns away from the harbor, not even a day away if we moved fast. It reminded me of a baseball field in my mind, when you signed me up at 12, up to hit, a wet mop of hair sagging to my ears, palms sweatier than ever, vision blurring, ears pulsing painfully in the sharp autumn wind.

I never did hit that ball

"Max. Focus. Put the journal away." Simon, our quasi-leader, and the wisest amongst us said, "We are nearly there."

The edges of his hair fell down in front of my face. White locks mixed with the deep brown, it was like a birch tree in the middle of an oak forest, strange, and made you wonder why.

He stared at me as I wrote that-even as I'm writing this — snorting, and then burst into laughter. Grasping his lips as he did. "Max, oh my god you're narrating me."

He fell silent as he heard the sound of fabric shuffling. I turned my head, staring at the roused child who had awoken from slumber like a vampire out of a sarcophagus.

"Ouch!" I rubbed my wrist. It'd been under strain as I journaled, not only to you, but to myself, about my life, that I hoped no one else would read.

I'm glad you've trained me to be ambidextrous. Lithe fingers grasping the pen with fresh flesh to hold it — sorry — the transition from hand to hand isn't very important. I've just picked up the odd habit of observing and writing. Keeps me off of deeper thoughts, wretched thoughts that make me feel like frozen slush kicking around on a wintery day.

Not that I knew what that felt like. The sun rose, morning dew all around us, on the windows of the abandoned apartment building — we were in an emptied town — scavenged and wrecked like a bar full of divorced, drunken, men.

That was funny. Wasn't it? Yeah. Thanks, Dad. I try.

Walking over to the window; out of the corner of my eye, I could see the vast labyrinth of stone, where broken light poles served as vines in the concrete jungle. Armored cars as thorned bushels, and hordes of undead limping as the predators.

A jungle, yeah, it was. A jungle of concrete. One of terror, one of man's own making, far more twisted than anything nature could create on its own.

Were we separate from nature though? Hmmm... a thought I won't brood about too long. I've got to go. We're leaving.

Thank you for watching over me. Love from Earth to Superbia. Little wizard, out.

IT WAS MY MISTAKE. OR YOURS. I'D MARTYRED MYSELF, DAD. DAD, I'VE KILLED MYSELF. DAD, HELP, I'VE KILLED MYSELF AND I DON'T WANT TO DIE.

DAD. I CAN'T SEE THE STARS. I-I CAN'T SEE THE STARS. DAD... PLEASE HELP ME.

DAD, I THINK I'M DYING.

I'M DYIN-

In a dark cove. Underneath a mountain of woolen blankets, I closed the book-- no, Diary that I'd read a thousand times. The story of Maxine Saint. The short glimpse into her life.

The last part made my heart throb. So I tucked it further down the long pile, hoping to fall asleep.

It felt like my head was on fire. The tears wouldn't stop. It still hurts, because I still remember; Because I never want to forget, but beneath my eyes, I could see the stars. Another thing I had stolen from her.